Gordon Robinson | No need for a paternity test

The story was that, as a child, the Dunce fell from a tree head first, since which he was never the same.

But nothing in this world is as it appears. Based on that belief, who we’d call ‘madman’ is often one who simply sees what we can’t. So the Dunce, who spends his life pursuing happiness, which he defines as “walk foot and kick stone”, may well be smarter than the average bear, who pursues success then catches it only to find it comes with a side order of stress.

As many chug Maalox; endure regular digital or colonoscopy exams; and juggle harems while tracking spouses’ activities to ensure one-way ‘bun’; the Dunce goes his happy-go-lucky way unfazed by life’s vicissitudes and committed to his abiding belief, “If a macca mek it jook yu!”

So we were taking a break from a turbulent domino game hoping the Beast would lose the urge to decapitate the Dunce. But he seemed more concerned about being unvaccinated against polio (despite its long-time defeat). Apparently, some mix-up resulted in his absence from school on the day students were lined up and jabbed without option. In those halcyon days, nobody knew children had rights.

Gene Autry tried reassuring him. “Have a slice of pizza,” he advised. “Everything looks better after pizza.”

“But what happens if polio comes back?” the Beast agonised.

The Dunce chimed in with a chilling foreshadowing of Buju Banton’s pandemic philosophy “A nuh nuttin. If a macca mek it jook yu!” then wolfed another mouthful of pepperoni pizza.

Haemorrhoid saved the day. Regular readers know Ernest H. Flower – a lazy, articled clerk who complained persistently about “piles and piles” of files on his desk. His non-existent work ethic and convenient middle initial earned him the nickname. He was hopeless at dominoes, but a world-class raconteur with hilarious shaggy-dog tales always handy, so welcome even if it meant we had to share our pizza.

Haemorrhoid told the Beast to be happy that, as far as he knew, he was healthy. “Sometimes it’s best not to know,” he said. “Sometimes, even when you do know, you don’t know.”

We sensed a Shaggy-Dog Tale coming. Haemorrhoid was in full flight.

“In Scotland, a dying man is allowed one final question. The Scots believe it must be answered truthfully or his soul will be damned for all eternity.

Sean McClarty was on his deathbed. He had four sons. Three were huge strapping sorts, but the fourth was a skinny, puny fellow. He called out feebly to his wife, ‘Maisie, Maisie. Are you there darlin’?’

‘I’m here, luv. I’m right beside you.’

‘I’m going, I’m going…,’ he whispered.

‘I know luv. Don’t be long…’

‘Maisie, before I go I’m gonna ask you THE question. I have to know, Maisie. Please tell me the truth. That puny little fella; that skinny malinky longlegs standing at the end of the bed; is he really my son?”

She looked him straight in his fading eyes and said ‘He is, Sean. Dinna fash yersel’. Honest to God. He’s really your son.”

Sean smiled; took his last breath; and passed away.

Then she looked to the heavens and said, ‘Thank God he didn’t ask about the other three.’”

I remembered Haemorrhoid’s story during recent vaccine roll-out chaos (including non-payment of nurses/termination of doctors), which Chris Tufton couldn’t bring himself to own as his. His attempt at fathering Jamaica’s push for herd immunity has produced puny progeny. First, he tried to spend gazillions awarding contracts to combat “vaccine hesitancy”, but now hundreds flocking vaccine centres are turned away. He might’ve been better off listening to Mark’s budget debate plea for herb immunity.

Sadly, all Tufton seems capable of is mealy-mouthed expressions of “regret”, and pusillanimous pretence vaccine procurement is to blame. But he KNEW of procurement issues in advance. It’s his job to manage and equitably prioritise current inventory distribution. ‘Regret’ means you wish it hadn’t happened, not that you accept responsibility for your flawed (re)production.

Here’s the thing, Chris. This is YOUR child. Honest to God. It’s really yours. Don’t wait until, like a bad comedian, you’re dying out there, to accept accountability for it.

Peace and Love!

Gordon Robinson is an attorney-at-law. Email feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com.